


The Locket: Being a Muggle Romance, Containing a Treasured Photograph, an Ugly Heirloom, a Stalking Triangle, a Psychopath, and Comfort in Unexpected Places

by HC_Weatherfield



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco works at the business factory, Drarry is Endgame, Hermione and Ron are precious, I'm not sorry, Kingsley Shacklebolt is everyone's dad, M/M, Muggle AU, Oh and some dub con re: domestic abuse, Pansy Parkinson ships it, Smut, Social Worker Harry, actually disregard previous tag, couldn't resist, not always for plot purposes, not glorified I swear, there is smut but it is there exclusively for plot purposes, this gets weird, tw for domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield
Summary: Draco was thrilled when Tom finally broke up with Harry.  It was all perfectly lovely...till Harry showed up on Tom's balcony with an urgent request.  Damned orphan pathos.Or: Tom is poison, Harry and Draco find each other.  And they're Muggles.





	1. The Balcony

Draco went out to the balcony to smoke, wearing nothing but a pair of Tom’s silk briefs. It was stinking hot, the kind of weather that made all of London smell of exhaust and curry and sweat, and Draco swore if he sniffed deep enough he could smell a ghost of Victorian effluvia wafting off the Thames a few blocks away. He lit his cigarette.

“Those things’ll kill you,” said a voice from the shadows, “not that I’d mind much.”

Draco started so badly that he dropped his cigarette, then went to stomp it out only to realize, painfully, that he was not wearing shoes. He gritted his teeth against the sizzling of his foot and glared at the shadows, where a pair of green eyes glowed like a cat’s.

“Harry,” he greeted. “Summited a new peak of desperation, have we?”

“I can smell your skin burning,” said Harry.

“How horrifying.”

“No, I mean--” Harry growled in frustration-- “d’you need to go inside and get a plaster?”

“Make up your mind,” said Draco. “Murderous stalker or caring acquaintance? I need to know if you’re going to stab me or light my cigarette, and the suspense is killing me.”

“Not going to stab you,” said Harry.

“You’ll have to go through me to get to him,” said Draco, annoyed with himself that he meant it.

“I just need to pick up something that got left here,” Harry tried.

“Don’t suppose it occurred to you to knock on the door and ask.”

“No,” said Harry with a quirk of his eyebrow, “I rather figured two world wars had been enough for Britain.”

Draco cringed, remembering the last time Harry and Tom had encountered each other face to face. He nodded slightly, conceding the point, and reached for another cigarette.

“If you’d just let me pop in,” said Harry, stepping into the light a bit. Then he added, “I suppose Tom’s in the kitchen.”

“He is,” Draco agreed, smug. Tom always went to the kitchen after sex to make and drink a cup of coffee. It was his way of enjoying the afterglow while simultaneously letting his bed partner know they were not welcome to spend the night. “And I won’t.”

“He won’t see me. He’ll never even know I was here.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Draco lit his cigarette and inhaled. He tried to focus on the sweet relief of it, but Harry’s voice insisted on cutting in.

“Please--I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

Draco looked askance at Harry. If he himself were in Harry’s position, he knew he’d have clung to any excuse to be near Tom, even if it were just to lurk on his balcony. Not that Draco would ever lurk. He was far too well bred for that.

“I mean it, Draco.” Harry looked pained. “I really don’t want to be here. I don’t--it’s not fun for me, all right? This is not a _lark_.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the locket,” Harry said with a cringe.

Draco responded with a sharp glance. “The locket is Tom’s.”

“I know, but--”

“--but it’s Tom’s family fucking _heirloom_ and you have no fucking right to it?”

“I _know_ that,” said Harry, freezing Draco with the intensity of his voice. “But it’s something I left in the locket, all right? I don’t want the bloody fucking thing, why would I? This is just a simple extraction.”

“In the locket,” Draco said blankly.

“A picture.” At Draco’s look, Harry continued quietly, “of my parents.”

Draco swallowed. That...well, he wasn’t quite heartless enough to scorn that, even if he did hate Harry with all his might. No friend of Tom’s could take orphanhood lightly.

“And you can’t have another copy made...why?” Draco tried.

“It’s the only copy.”

“You put the only copy of a picture of your sainted parents in a locket you were borrowing from your _boyfriend_?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t think we’d break up.”

Draco huffed. “Of all the--”

“Draco? Is someone there?” Tom’s voice. Tom’s footsteps approaching.

“Best scarper,” said Draco to Harry. “I was planning on having a nice fag and slinking home, not refereeing a duel to the death, tonight.”

“Right then,” said Harry. “I’d say it was nice chatting with you, but, well, you know.” And with that, he disappeared down the fire escape. Seconds later, Tom stepped onto the balcony, godlike in his black satin pajama pants, hair mussed, bare chest gleaming in the porchlight. He pinched Draco’s arse in greeting and then stole his cigarette, taking a deep drag.

“Were you talking to someone?” he asked. Draco contemplated telling Tom what had just passed. He loved Tom. He didn’t like to hide things from him. But sometimes it was necessary--like, for example, when a storm of temper threatened to ruin a decent night. So Draco decided to keep Harry’s confidence, Lord help him, for the moment.

“Pigeon,” he said. “I’m trying a new thing, making pithy comments to passing vermin. It has a sort of maudlin, Cambridgean whimsy to it, don’t you think?”

“And an Oxford toff would know about that, would he?” Tom teased. Draco’s cigarette was nearly gone, and he still hadn’t passed it back.

“Perhaps an Oxford toff can learn a thing or two from his serious Cambridge b--from his Cambridge mate.” Draco tried to control the blush that was creeping up his neck. Fuckety _fuck_ , he had almost said 'boyfriend.’ Tom’s eyes grew cold at his slip-up as he flicked Draco’s now spent cigarette over the side of the balcony.

“Well, a Cambridge man has work to do. I trust an Oxford toff can see himself out?”

“I trust he can,” agreed Draco, making his manner as easy as he could make it.

Tom turned and went back into the apartment with barely a further glance. Draco lagged behind a bit, then made his way to the bedroom to dress. As he did, he stared at the locket, which hung on a nail above Tom’s dresser, the only piece of decor to grace the yellowish-white walls. It was an ugly thing, really, a hunk of malformed gold inlaid with crudely cut emeralds. It was old, granted, probably the sort of thing that should be rotting in some museum’s undisplayed collections. It was all Tom had of his mother, the last inbred scion of the Gaunts, the family itself a long-rotted twig of the British nobility. She had been descended, she claimed, from the great Elizabethan courtier the Earl of Slytherin, whence the locket. Of course, it could be an erroneous claim. Probably was. The Slytherin earldom was long since disbanded, its manor absorbed into another noble family’s holdings. In fact, Hogwarts Hall now belonged to Harry’s family. Perhaps that was what Tom had seen in him, Draco mused, considering the man didn’t have many other redeeming qualities.

No--Draco had to admit to himself that that wasn’t true. He may not like Harry, but he oughtn’t fool himself that it was actually Harry himself that had brought on his ire. A bit creepy, a bit intense, and stubborn as hell, he was, but not a bad bloke in all. No, nowadays Draco hated Harry almost solely because of Tom. Harry had captured Tom’s attention in ways Draco never had--probably never would, truth be told. Maybe it was that desperate, self-immolating honesty of his. That was a trait Draco could never attempt to replicate.

Well, Tom probably had no intention of leaving the safety of his kitchen until Draco had cleared out of the apartment. With a resigned sigh, Draco quietly took the locket off the wall and opened it. Inside, cut into an oval, was an old photograph of a dark-haired man resting his chin on top of a red-haired woman’s head, looking fondly down at her while she smiled at the camera. Her eyes were the same startling green as Harry’s, but the rest of Harry’s looks were all his father’s, excepting that Harry’s father appeared to have been much taller than Harry would ever be. Tom would probably burn this if he found it. The spiteful bastard, thought Draco fondly. Well, it was a good shot, no need for it to go to waste. Draco slipped the picture into his wallet, then closed the locket and hung it up again.

On his way out, Draco steeled himself to avoid looking in the kitchen doorway. He imagined what he would see if he did: Tom hunched over a willow patterned mug, inhaling coffee fumes meditatively, the shadows of his long lashes brushing his cheeks. At peace in a way he never was with Draco present.

Boyfriend, indeed. Draco vowed not to allow himself to slip up like that again. He could afford a lot, but he couldn’t afford that.


	2. The Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Locket Delivery does not go smoothly.

Harry gratefully slumped into a chair. It had been a draining morning, but even a rushed half-hour of lunch with Ron and Hermione could cheer him up immensely. And hopefully dispel the dark cloud of Tom hanging over his head, and get last night’s strange conversation with Draco off his mind.

“You look grim,” Hermione observed, sitting down next to him with her cuppa and obscenely vegetable-ridden sandwich.

“It’s because I’m contemplating that monstrosity you’re eating,” said Harry. “If that’s the consequences of being vegetarian, count me out.”

“Your lunch is vegetarian too,” Hermione pointed out.

“I’m a cheese and pickle man,” said Harry stolidly. “There’s no harm in that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. Ron joined them, sliding his plate onto the table and not even pausing to greet them before stuffing his croque monsieur into his mouth.

“How you ended up married to him I’ll never understand,” Harry observed to Hermione.

“It was his intellectual prowess that drew me to him,” Hermione deadpanned.

Ron swallowed his food, then grinned. “You love me.”

“That I do,” said Hermione. Ron’s face lit up like that of a puppy who had just been told he was a good boy, while Hermione took on the distinct expression of the cat who had got the canary. Harry couldn’t help but be happy for them, and did his best to bury all thoughts of Tom in favor of basking in the moment.

“So, mate,” said Ron, turning to him, “how’s your morning been?”

Harry frowned. “Difficult,” he admitted. “There’s this girl, I think she needs to be removed from her home, but her aunt--”

“May I speak with you?”

Surprised and a bit miffed at being interrupted, Harry looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing above him. He could not have been more astonished. Of course Harry knew Draco’s office building was only a few doors down from his, but it might as well have been a world away. Draco was the sort to be reminded by his secretary that he had to attend a three-martini lunch with visiting dignitaries, rather than simply popping over to Pret for a sandwich and cuppa after crying in a cubicle all morning, as Harry had. He looked out of place, too, in his Armani, surrounded by plebs like Harry (who wore discount Burberry at his fanciest, and then only when Hermione bought it for him).

Harry held his gaze, eager to keep Draco looking this uncomfortable for as long as possible.

“Harry had a long and taxing morning of doing his civic duty,” said Hermione pointedly, “and he needs this time to recuperate emotionally.” Harry tried not to roll his eyes. Hermione was wonderful and he loved her, but she utterly lacked subtlety.

“Forgive me my ignorance of the folk rituals of the middle classes,” said Draco, “but the matter is urgent.”

“Look, mate--” Ron began threateningly, but Harry quietened him with a wave of his hand.

“It’s all right,” he said lightly. “The curiosity will kill me if I don’t humor him. Watch my sandwich carefully, will you? That woman with the salad looks peckish, I don’t want her getting ideas.” With that Harry got up to follow Draco out of the restaurant, imagining how Ron would grin at his comment and Hermione would don her usual fondly exasperated look.

“This is far enough,” said Harry when they had stepped out of earshot of the cafe tables outside the doors. “What is it?”

Draco huffed and muttered, clear as a bell, that Harry was uncivilized to keep him standing out of doors like this. Then he said, “I have taken pity on a poor orphan boy. I have the photo.”

Harry eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Indeed,” said Draco. “I’d like you to come to my pub to collect it, as I don’t fancy risking my neck to visit whatever slum you frequent.”

“What? Haven’t you got it now? Just give it here and we’ll have done with it, yeah?” said Harry, a bit desperately. God, he was tired of sounding desperate. When would he be able to put this whole mess with Tom behind him?

“I don’t want to give it to you now,” said Draco.

“Why not?” Harry demanded. “What do you want?”

Draco gritted his teeth, his expression pained. “I’d like to talk with you.”

“What about?” asked Harry, nonplussed.

“Tom,” said Draco.

“Absofuckinglutely not,” said Harry. “That would put a distinct kink in my plan to forget that the bastard was ever born.”

“You climbed his fire escape last night,” Draco pointed out.

“ _To get the photo_.”

“Well then?” said Draco, “Do you want the photo or not?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” asked Harry, astonished.

“I’d say it’s more along the lines of light bribery,” said Draco.

“Or a hostage situation.”

“Well?”

Harry sighed, defeated. “All right. Though I don’t know what’s your neighborhood pub.”

“I’ll have Gerta email you the information.”

“Right, here’s my card; let me write down my email…”

“No need.”

“You already have my email? How’d you get it?” Harry demanded.

“Honestly, Harry,” Draco scoffed, “it’s public record. And even if it weren’t, Gerta would find it.”

“This woman sounds terrifying,” said Harry. “Are all secretaries this terrifying?”

Draco merely responded with a wolfish grin.

“Six-thirty,” he said, and walked away.

“What was that?” Ron asked as Harry slumped back down into his seat.

“I think You-Know-Who’s plaything wants to talk _feelings_ with me,” said Harry, caught between hilarity and despair.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked, clearly astonished.

“Seems that way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ron scoffed. “Posh types like him don’t have _feelings_ any more than they drink bag tea. It’s been bred out of them, like.”

“S’pose I’ll find out tonight,” said Harry glumly.

“You’re not going?” Said Hermione.

“It’s a hostage situation.”

“You don’t mean--” Ron started.

“Oh, Harry, you _didn’t_ ,” Hermione interrupted. “Not only did you go back, you actually spoke to him?”

“Not to...He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” said Harry quickly. “Draco made an unexpected appearance on the balcony.”

Ron snorted.

“What?”

“Not exactly unexpected, I’d say.”

“Ron,” Hermione scolded, “there’s no need for that.”

“I have to agree with Hermione,” said Harry. “I don’t need any further reminders of how stupid I’ve been, thanks.”

“Harry, mate, I didn’t--”

“It’s all right,” said Harry. “Listen, I’ve got to go. You know, got some kittens that need saving from trees.”

Hermione winced as Harry got up and left. She hated when he quoted Tom.

~

Draco’s pub was the paneled, polished sort of place that had sconces and didn’t carry Seagrams. Harry felt instantly uncomfortable on walking in. Then he reflected that this had probably been Draco’s intention, and decided to spite it. So he held his head high and strolled up to the bar, hands shoved into his pockets, to order an overpriced but admittedly very good scotch.

He was late, the bastard. Probably wanted to give Harry time to squirm. Well, fuck him. Harry swigged his drink and ordered another. Harry was just wondering if Draco had actually been planning to drive him to drink, when the man himself walked in, still immaculate in his slate grey business suit. He nodded to the bartender, said, “usual,” and then gestured to Harry to follow him to a booth in the corner. Harry, who had not yet received his second drink, glanced at the bartender, who waved him away. This, he supposed, was the way one behaved when they were actually raised with their wealth on hand. He supposed the bartender would bring their drinks to them. How horrible.

“You were right,” said Harry conversationally, “Kensington is quite a trek from my neck of the woods.”

“And where is that?” asked Draco, sneering faintly.

“Chelsea,” Harry grinned. “I believe it was an entire fifteen minutes’ walk.”

“Droll,” said Draco.

The bartender did indeed bring their drinks, placing a martini in front of Draco before setting down Harry’s scotch. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Rugged.”

Harry snorted. “Elegant,” he said sarcastically, eyeing the martini, which Draco was lightly sipping, barely disturbing the drink’s placid surface.

“Well,” said Draco after setting down his glass, “now that we’ve established our mutual disdain, shall we begin?”

“Begin what?” Harry asked. He couldn’t help it--through his resentment, he was amused. It was so satisfying to see Draco out of his element, overpriced pub aside.

“The interview,” said Draco, glaring at Harry when the other man laughed. “I have some questions for you.”

“Sounds delightful. Have at it then.”

“Why did Tom give you the locket?” Draco asked, leaning in slightly, betraying the intensity of his interest.

“He didn’t,” said Harry, puzzled.

“You wore the hideous thing over your cut-rate Benetton for _months_ ,” Draco snapped. “There’s no need for evasion, Potter.”

Harry gritted his teeth, trying to swallow back the venom that seemed to well in his mouth at hearing Draco call him by his surname as if they were at school again. That was decidedly not what this meeting was about. This meeting was about avoiding pissing Draco off long enough to claim the photograph back so that he could walk away and, god willing, never see the toff or his psychopath fuck buddy ever again.

“I meant, said Harry tightly, “that he didn’t give it to me, not really. It was a loan, not a gift. He made that plain.”

“Yes, well, Tom doesn’t give gifts,” said Draco, waving that concern away.

“I’m aware.”

“Nor does he loan his things,” added Draco, “which brings me back to my question. Why _you_?”

And that...Harry was like to drown in the undertow of that memory. _He had been sitting up in bed, ready to go wash up and make his exit a bit early, as he had an early home visit in the morning. Tom had slung the locket around his neck without warning, pulling him back down onto the pillow by its chain, cutting off his airflow slightly as he kissed him._

_It was frightening and wonderful. He was feeling a bit light-headed by the time Tom let go. Harry had tried to reach up to feel what was around his neck, but Tom had taken his wrists and pinned them above his head, rolling on top of him._

_“It’s my locket,” said Tom, sensing his questions. “You’re going to be wearing it for a while.”_

_Harry had grimaced, trying to get free. “Am I?”_

_“You are,” Tom had growled, lowering himself so that his lips brushed Harry’s when he spoke. “I can’t have you wandering around without everyone knowing whom you belong to.”_

_Harry didn’t get a chance to object, as Tom was on him, around him,_ in _him, before he could take another strangled breath. And Tom was tangling his free hand in Harry’s hair, pulling slightly, and whispering in his ear, “stay here tonight.”_

Returning to the present, Harry blinked at Draco.

“It was a collar,” he said after a moment. “A sign of ownership.”

“Why?” Draco repeated, longing leaking into his voice.

“I don’t know,” said Harry, “but trust me, Draco. You don’t want him like that. You don’t want to pay that price.”

“I didn’t ask you for advice,” said Draco nastily.

“Didn’t you?” Harry asked.

“I asked for information.”

“I don’t have the information you want,” said Harry. “Only--only _he_ does.”

“Afraid to speak his name, Potter?” Draco taunted.

Harry responded by catching his eye with an open, frank look. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”

In his surprise, Draco dropped his mask for a moment. Harry had to admit that, when he relaxed slightly, Draco was beautiful. With mussed hair and a sleepy smile, he would be something astonishing to behold. He wondered, vaguely, if Tom understood the value of what he was throwing away by treating Draco as he did.

Of course he didn’t. He hadn’t understood what an overwhelming love he had poisoned in Harry--why would he suddenly comprehend what Draco was offering him? Harry felt a sudden and sharp pity.

“I know how you feel,” said Harry. “I wish you’d believe that. I’ve been where you want to go, and I can tell you--it’ll never be enough. He’ll never _give_ you enough.”

Draco’s eyes flashed. “I think you’re mistaking me for yourself, Potter.”

“I doubt that,” said Harry. “I didn’t bother with anything as nice as you’re wearing even for Uncle Albus’ funeral.”

“Well, _he_ hadn’t the taste to notice,” said Draco.

At that, Harry slammed his drink down and stood.

“You of all people should know better than to insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me.”

“Go then,” said Draco. He was nearly snarling. Harry put on his coat and stormed out of the pub.

~

It was only hours later, when he had stomped back to his own flat and brooded for some time, that Harry realized he’d left the photo behind. He cursed aloud and started pacing.

“Meow,” said Hedwig. He looked down at the fluffy white cat.

“Sorry, girl, I’ll get you your dinner.”

While he was in the kitchen spooning cat food from a can, he fumed. He just wanted the fucking photo. Why was that git making him jump through all these fucking hoops? For his own twisted satisfaction? Harry shouldn’t’ve agreed to meet Draco at the pub. He should’ve just tackled him and wrestled the photo off of him right there. Now how was he going to get the photo back? He only had one other of his parents: the one that sat on the side table by his couch, of them laughing together, bundled up, in the snow. Thinking of the image, he slumped over the counter and put his head in his hands.

Hedwig meowed. He put the food down on the floor and petted her as she ate.

“Your human is a fucking trainwreck,” he said.

~

Harry needn’t have worried. When he got to work the next morning, he found another email from Draco’s secretary, requesting that he meet Draco again at the same pub the following week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I've been thrilled with the response to this so far. Your comments make me so happy! I hope you all continue to enjoy, as it only gets weirder from here.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, you can leave me a tip here: ko-fi.com/hcweatherfield


	3. The Inkwell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this one. It's the magic of depression! I've had this one for a while, but didn't want to put it up till I knew where I was going next, in case of changes. Now, with the next chapter almost complete, we are ready to proceed. This one's a bit short, and the next one's a bit long, but I like to think they're both satisfying in their own way.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, you can leave me a tip here: ko-fi.com/hcweatherfield

Draco was unaccustomed to the amount of emotional turmoil he was presently experiencing.  Well, he had been, anyway, before he’d met Tom. Tom who hadn’t contacted Draco in a week, damn him.

Thoughts of Tom plagued him everywhere.  Of Tom quiet and beautiful, of Tom on fire with his own brilliance, of Tom savage in his lust.  He could barely concentrate for two minutes together.

Not that that mattered much, aside from Draco’s own peace of mind.  He was what Pansy lovingly called a “vice-whatsit” at the Malfoy Company, meaning that his primary job was to be his father’s son.  He saw people before Father did, sounding them out and buttering them up, preparing them to taste for negotiations with Father. He had long lunches.  He wrote elegant reports. He fired important people when Father didn’t feel like firing them, and pre-screened applicants for positions before Father interviewed them.  It would be demeaning work if it weren’t so goddamned convenient.

Anyway, Draco probably wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it at least a bit.  After all, he had no real need to work. Part of him thought he did it just because he looked so good in professional dress.

Whatever his motivations for keeping it, he wasn’t doing much at his job right now.  Just brooding in his office and drinking half a fourth martini at his business lunches.  It was all right; it was fine. He still looked good doing it.

Nonetheless, it was not the ideal state of things.  And when Tom walked into his office unannounced, Draco felt his lungs fill, and it was as if he were breathing for the very first time.

“What brings you here?” Draco asked, trying and failing to keep his tone cool.

“Do you have it?” Tom demanded.  The relief of seeing him fading, Draco noticed that Tom looked furious.  Well, when had Draco ever had luck? Aside from being born a Malfoy--even he would admit that was a stroke of good fortune.

“Pardon?” Draco asked.

“Something of mine is missing,” Tom hissed.  He was approaching the desk now--walking around it--backing Draco into his chair, getting in his face.

“Darling,” said Draco as dryly as he could, “it was _you_ who didn’t call _me_ after the other night.”

Tom backed off slightly, looking almost disgusted.  That hurt Draco, and struck up a momentary urge in him to hurt Tom back.

“In my locket,” Tom ground out, “there was a photo.”

“You know I wouldn’t touch that gauche piece of work,” said Draco almost without thinking.  Well, he’d been storing _that_ one up for a while, hadn’t he? But Tom didn’t seem to be angry.  Instead, he stood up straight, looking down at Draco. 

“In future,” he said, “I’ll thank you not to speak so carelessly.  I expect better decorum from any boyfriend of mine.”

Draco felt as if an electric shock were running through him.  He didn’t think he could have spoken if his family fortune depended on it.

Tom leaned over Draco again and threaded his fingers in Draco’s hair.  “If you see it, do please return it to me,” he said.

Draco was breathing hard, but tried to keep his mind on the conversation, knowing how much rode on it.  “What’s it a photo of?” he asked.

Tom didn’t answer, instead leaning in to kiss him.  Immediately, a groan escaped Draco, and he tilted his head back so Tom had better access.  He’d missed this. It hadn’t even been a week, but he felt as though he’d been dying of thirst and had finally been watered.  Like he’d been wilting but had found the sun. Then Tom’s hand grasped his cock through his trousers, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ had ever mattered this much.  

A sharp tug on Draco’s hair told him Tom was trying to coax him into a standing position, and, shakily, Draco obeyed.  He made short work of Draco’s trousers, then bent him over the desk. He produced lube from God knew where and prepared him with almost cruel efficiency.  Draco was so absorbed in wondering whether Tom had planned this that he didn’t even hear the condom wrapper tear, and in an instant nothing mattered any more, because he was complete, because Tom was there with him.  The rocking against the desk was uncomfortable, but Draco was grateful for the bruises he’d have later, because they would be reminders that Tom had been here. Even if Tom decided to starve him again, he’d have them.  And it didn’t matter when he knocked down and shattered an heirloom crystal inkwell reaching for purchase he wouldn’t find. Nothing but Tom would ever matter. He loved Tom. He knew that about himself. He knew how sick he was, and it didn’t matter to him.

“Fuck,” Draco said after they were done, “I have a three-thirty.  Look at this fucking mess.” 

“I’ve no doubt you’ll manage,” said Tom, zipping up his trousers with unfair composure.

“I suppose, but you’d best get a move on if I’m to get myself together in time.”

“All right then.”  Tom swaggered up to Draco, kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear, “See you tonight, love.”

Draco knew better than to ask what they’d be doing that night.  He was sure he’d be informed eventually. And anyway, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to speak again, because had Tom  _ really _ just said that?

Tom, who smoothed his shirt and walked out of Draco’s office, not a hair out of place.  Tom, who wanted the photo Harry had left in his locket. Tom, who--

Who wanted Harry back.

Draco swore and stumbled to his office’s little en-suite loo.  He couldn’t believe he’d broken that heirloom fucking inkwell.

 

~

 

Since he’d arrived early to the pub, Draco saw Harry walk in and go to order a drink.  

“Don’t bother,” he said, coming up to him.  “This won’t take long. C’mon.” He led a perplexed Harry back to his usual booth.

“Finally going to give me the photo, then?” Harry asked between his teeth.

“Yes,” said Draco simply, and produced it from his wallet.  He handed it over to an astonished Harry.

“What’s the catch?”

“None,” Draco said, “though I should warn you.  Tom knows about the photo. He was looking for it.”

“Looking for it?”  Was it Draco’s imagination, or did Harry look a bit pale?

“Yes,” said Draco.   


“Fuck,” said Harry.  “Why can’t it just be done with?”

Again, Draco felt a swell of sudden fellow-feeling for Harry.  It was disconcerting. 

“That’s not how it works,” said Draco, a bit of his own misery creeping into his voice.  “I don’t know if he ever--”

“Hello Draco, Harry,” a voice interrupted him.  And without so much as a by-your-leave, Tom slid into the booth on Harry’s side.


	4. The Martini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Draco, and Tom in the same room is never a good look.

Harry felt fury well up in him as he glared at Draco.

“You set me up?”

“Of course not,” said Draco, appearing genuinely surprised at the accusation. “Why ever would I do that?”

“I can think of a few reasons,” said Harry.

“No need to give him so much credit, darling,” said Tom.

“Charming as this has been,” said Harry, still not looking up, “I’ve work to do before I turn in, so I’ve got to be going now.”

Tom did not move to let Harry out. Instead, he touched Harry’s hand where it wrapped around his glass. One touch, and Harry was back in his cupboard. Tom’s words fell like spiders on his head.

“Better to keep a clear head, don’t you think?” Tom said, and began to slide the drink away from Harry. Harry let his hand fall out from under Tom’s, quickly moving it out of his reach when he could.

Harry wanted his drink, but that hardly mattered now. He wanted to say something cruel to Tom, but he couldn’t speak.

“Let him drink if he wants,” said Draco casually. “He’s got no one to annoy with it.”

Harry didn’t need to be looking at Tom to see his eyes flash, to see the way his lips tightened in warning to Draco. He knew that, if he played it right, he could allow Draco to distract Tom until Harry was able to make his escape. He also knew that he didn’t want to do that to Draco. But what were his other options? Would he even be able to act with this malignant presence looming over him, with his throat choked with rage and fear? Harry had never been a coward. He was Harry Potter. It was known across London that a home visit from Harry Potter meant a child in safe hands and an abusive guardian jailed. A magazine local to his own neighborhood had dubbed Harry the “Defender of London’s Innocent.” Well, Draco was hardly innocent, but that was the thing about Harry. He’d defend pretty much anyone. It was the principle of the thing; abuse wouldn’t be allowed to stand. He couldn’t let it, couldn’t let himself be like his primary school teachers or even Uncle Albus. And so Harry swallowed hard, and tried to convince himself he could handle Tom.

“All right,” Harry said. “You want to talk to me, Tom? Let’s step outside. You can talk to me freely then.”

Before Tom could respond, Draco jumped in. He looked right at Harry. “Don’t be ridiculous, love. You have a date to keep with me tonight. Tom can always find another time for a chat with you, can’t you, Tom?”

Harry was so flabbergasted by Draco’s kamikaze move that it was only with his peripheral Tom-sense that he saw Tom’s dreaded calm expression.

“I thought you had work?’ Tom said to Harry.

“He was just trying to be polite,” said Draco, “but I decided there was no need for that, as the courtesy was not returned.”

Tom’s eyes were cold and dead, reminding Harry of the times when he’d genuinely feared Tom would kill him.

“All right,” said Tom, “I can see you two are occupied. Harry, I’ll be in touch, all right?” Harry couldn’t react. He could only stare as Tom stood and walked out of the pub.

“You can thank me any time,” said Draco after a moment.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

“He really did hurt you, didn’t he?”

Harry finally looked up. “He’s going to hurt you, too.”

“Probably.” Draco sighed and stood. “I think I could use a drink after all.”

“All right,” said Harry, standing and looking toward the bar, “I’ll get it. What do you want?”

“Not here.”

“Sorry?”

“Come to mine,” said Draco, trying to sound matter-of-fact but coming off awkward.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Never mind.”

“No.” Harry caught Draco’s shoulder as he turned away. “No, I’ll come.”

Draco caught his gaze, held it for a moment, and then nodded. Without a word, he led Harry out of the pub. They walked in silence to Draco’s flat, which was quite close. The building was gorgeous, and the doorman greeted Draco warmly as they swept inside and moved to the elevator. When they finally stepped into the flat itself, Harry couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“What?” Draco demanded.

“It’s a mess,” said Harry. When he saw Draco bristle, he added, “Not that I mind. Really. It’s just a bit funny. Not what I expected from you.”

“You don’t know me,” Draco pointed out.

“No,” Harry agreed. Draco gestured for Harry to hand over his coat, then hung it in the hall closet. He went to a marble-topped bar cart that rested against the wall.

“I don’t keep whiskey. Will a martini suit? I believe I’ve also got some brandy…”

“Whatever you’re having,” Harry said quietly. Draco made two martinis. Harry watched his back as he measured and poured and shook, and he found his gaze drifting to Draco’s arse. _No_. He had sworn off anything of the sort for at least a few months. After Tom…

The martinis being poured, Draco turned around and handed Harry his. To his surprise, Harry found that when he took the glass, liquid sloshed over the edge. His hands were trembling. Draco took hold of Harry’s hand to steady the glass and tipped it to Harry’s mouth. He was never a fan of vodka, but it was a good martini.

“Cheers,” said Harry hoarsely.

“Indeed,” said Draco, taking a sip of his own drink. “To this nightmare we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

Harry sipped again, then slumped against the wall and sighed. “Fuck, Draco. I probably shouldn’t...I mean, it shouldn’t be you I tell this to, but, fuck it, you’re here. I mean I’m here.”

“The famed eloquence of Harry Potter.”

“Fuck off.” Harry looked up, caught Draco’s gaze, held it. “I’m really frightened.”

“Yes,” said Draco, “I’m beginning to see that.”

“I just... I don’t know what I’m going to do. How I’m going to get through this, or escape or...whatever it is that’s done. I feel like he’ll be at my back forever.”

“He’s like that,” Draco said.

Harry took a gulp of his drink and continued. “I lie awake thinking about it. What would it take for Tom to be out of my life? A restraining order wouldn’t do it. He’s too slippery for that. Maybe if he seriously hurts someone and goes to prison. But he’s so cautious. How do I lose him? London’s a big place, but people know me. They notice where I go. They’d notice if I left. I wonder, sometimes, if I’ll never be free of him, not until he finally kills me. Sometimes I wish he’d just get it overwith, truth be told.”

Draco stared at Harry, his expression an insulting mix of pity and disbelief. Harry knew where Draco was coming from, though. It was hard, when one was in Tom’s clutches, to believe anything that was said against him.

“Get out, Draco,” Harry said. “Get the fuck out of this while you still can.”

“And go where?” Draco asked.

Harry almost laughed in amazement. “Anywhere! You have everything. Stay right where you are.”

Draco’s eyes flashed. Harry gulped. He wished he weren’t being bombarded with reminders of this berk’s attractiveness at a time like this.

“You don’t know me,” said Draco.

Harry ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Then let me.”

“What?” said Draco, taken aback. “Why? You don’t like me.”

“True,” said Harry, “But in this we’re friends. Or...comrades of a sort, at least. I’ll admit there are things we did in school I’m reluctant to forgive you for, and I’m sure it’s the same for you. But we’re in similar positions at the moment. I think we should try not to be enemies.”

“We’re not in similar positions,” Draco pointed out. “Rather, we’re in opposite positions, I should think.”

“How d’you figure?” said Harry, confused.

“Tom wants you, even though you don’t want him,” said Draco quietly.

“Ah. That’s... _that_ was how it started out for me, as well.”

“Not true,” Draco responded instantly.

“It is, rather,” said Harry irritably. “I was there.”

“So was I,” said Draco. “I’ve been Tom’s friend since Uni, same as you. We talked. We talked about you.”

“Oh.” Harry swallowed, suddenly feeling queasy. “I don’t think I want to know about this.”

“I thought you wanted to get to know me,” said Draco. “I thought you’d want to know how it cut me every time Tom texted me about the beautiful green-eyed boy whom he’d like to--”

“What’s your favorite colour?” Harry blurted out. His palms were sweating, and he would do anything to get Draco to stop.

“Is the subject getting a bit tense for you, Potter?”

“I should go,” said Harry. He shouldn’t have been there in the first place, he realized all at once, though he couldn’t just leave the pub at the time. He had needed--

“Blue,” said Draco. Harry stopped; he hadn’t even realized he’d been walking toward the door, not really.

“Blue,” Harry repeated.

“All shades. Well, except that dreadful generic dress shirt shade. You know the one. You wear it most days.”

“I buy them in bulk at Primark,” said Harry.

“I honestly can’t tell whether you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Thank you for informing me.” Draco took a drink.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “D’you have to turn everything into an insult?”

“I wasn’t aware--”

“I asked you your favorite color and you responded by mocking my wardrobe.”

“It was relevant,” said Draco.

“Mine’s green,” said Harry with a sigh.

“Your what?”

“Favorite color.”

“You never wear it,” Draco said with apparent surprise.

“No,” Harry agreed. “When I do, everyone always comments on how it brings out my eyes. It’s bloody annoying.”

“You know,” said Draco consideringly, swirling his half-empty glass, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody else who actively _avoids_ looking even remotely attractive.”

“I never wanted to stand out,” said Harry. The conversation was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He took a gulp of martini, trying to focus on the burn of it in his throat. But Draco’s poncy vodka was so smooth it wasn’t much distraction. Bastard.

“You can’t help that,” said Draco. “People are drawn to you.”

“Nah,” said Harry. “Not me. The _idea_ of me. They like my dramatic sob story. They like my work, some of them. The older ones, they liked my parents, or Uncle Albus. Ain’t me.”

“You just said ‘ain’t,’” Draco responded stupidly, in apparent shock.

“Yeah, that’s the part of me most don’t like. The part that grew up abused and neglected and dreadfully middle-class. The part that struggled to learn to read. The part that got into common physical scraps with the other lordlings at public school. D’you remember that bit in _The Sun_ after our altercation on the rugby field in sixth form?”

“Ah yes,” said Draco. “What did they call you? ‘The aristocracy’s own feral child.’”

“I can’t believe you still remember that word for word,” said Harry, even though he absolutely could believe it. Draco had the grace to blush a little bit at that.

“I only thought it was a good turn of phrase,” he mumbled.

“Sure,” said Harry. He drained his glass.

“Another?” Draco offered with an arched brow.

Harry stalled out for a moment. He should probably go. He had work in the morning, and he didn't really know why he was here in the first place. Well, yes he did. He hadn’t felt safe alone. He could have called Hermione perhaps, but she would have taken forever to get there and would Draco have stayed and would Tom have snuck back in and would Harry have had a panic attack in front of Draco’s posh barman? Couldn’t be done. Nor could walking home alone. So he was here.

“I should go home,” Harry said.

“Not an answer,” said Draco.

“I…” Harry looked at Draco and his brain fuzzed out. “I don’t know.”

Draco sighed. “I’ll call you a car.”

“You will.”

“ _Yes_ , Potter, I will. It’s clear you need rest but are terrified to walk home.”

“I…” Harry wanted to deny it, but found he couldn’t. “Thanks.”

“Just a mo.” Draco tapped his phone a few times and had a brief conversation. He looked at Harry after hanging up. “It’ll be fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Harry,” said Harry.

“Sorry?”

“Not ‘Potter.’ It’s...we don’t need that, on top of it.”

“Ah,” said Draco.

“I know it’s easy to slip.”

“You’ve done so yourself,” Draco agreed.

“But we should try to present a united front, if only because--” Harry choked a little. “What are we going to do about Tom?”

“Let me handle it,” said Draco. Harry fixed him with a piercing look. He’d been told by many that he had a good one, learned from Uncle Albus and later, he supposed, from Moody, the grizzled old caseworker who had been his mentor.

“Well, _really_ , Potter,” huffed Draco, exasperated, “What exactly did you think you were going to do about it? Weep on him?”

A smile was creeping onto Harry’s face before he could stop it. “You’ve met him. That just might work. Stun him temporarily, at least.”

And then, incredibly, both of them were laughing. Laughing until they couldn’t breathe. Laughing until their terror shriveled, at least for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued support! I've had some lovely comments and I really appreciate all of you. Really, it means a lot to me. Things are going well, the next chapter is started, and posting should be a bit more regular going forward.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, you can leave me a tip here: ko-fi.com/hcweatherfield


	5. The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn't get much of a chance to recover from his heart-to-heart with Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I'm terribly sorry for the infrequency and unpredictability of my updates. Work and mental illness are a bitch. Thank you to my returning readers for your forbearance. 
> 
> Enjoy the entrance of Pansy.

Draco supposed he ought to be glad that Tom chose not to catch him in his office this time.

It was strange to see Tom in Draco’s flat. Not just because Tom hadn’t visited often, but also because of the previous night. Draco had bundled Harry out of doors quickly enough when the car had arrived, but Harry left a certain feeling behind him, something scuffed and homey, that showed no sign of dissipating. That atmosphere did not suit Tom. It didn’t make room for the dark seriousness he brought with him everywhere.

“You lied to me,” Tom said by way of greeting.

“It’s possible,” said Draco with his best posh drawl, his best indifferent expression. “Can you be more specific?”

“You and Harry,” Tom said through gritted teeth.

Draco was surprised--if Tom wasn’t taking the time to equivocate, he must be truly upset. Draco didn’t recall ever having the power to upset Tom like this before.

“Lied how?” Draco questioned casually.

“You’re not fucking,” Tom growled.

“Not yet,” said Draco with some relish.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, Malfoy.”

Draco was barely containing a smirk. Tom hadn’t called him by his surname in years. Almost as soon as they’d met, he’d started calling him Draco, with a casual intimacy that spoke of ownership. Draco hadn’t found it grating at the time, but somehow the name “Malfoy” on Tom’s lips sounded right and proper now.

“Hmm,” said Draco, “I’m beginning to see what the rustics mean by all their nattering about pots and kettles.”

Tom blinked away the observation and moved forward. “Why did you lie to me, Draco?”

“Why do you care?” Draco returned.

Tom looked stunned. “Of course I care. Draco, I care about you. You’ve always been so good to me. I just--I can’t believe you would hurt me like this.”

Draco swallowed against the nausea that rose in him at the sight of Tom’s hurt expression. There was a large part of him that wanted to believe Tom. It would feel so good to hear those words, if they were sincere. “

_You know,” said Tom, “In some ways, you’re my best friend.”_

_“I should hope so,” said Draco._

_“No!” Tom sat up, making the bed bounce a bit, and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the side table. “No, I mean it, Draco. I really think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”_

_“Better than Bella?” Draco smirked, unable to resist the jab._

_“This isn’t a time for joking,” Tom declared, looking him in the eye. “Draco, you take such good care of me. No one’s ever taken care of me as well as you do.”_

_A rare sincere smile bloomed on Draco’s face._

_“‘Swhat I’m here for,” he said, choking back all the other words scrambling to get out._

That hadn’t been so long ago--a few years, time in which Draco hadn’t changed much. And he still hadn’t really changed. He still loved Tom. The only difference was, he was beginning to hate him now, too. And that hatred was beginning to chip away at his fear. That was probably Harry’s influence--or maybe Draco had simply had enough. So he let the truth out.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he said. “You hurt me, I hurt you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Tom, though the flicker in his eyes assured Draco that he did. “How have I hurt you?”

“Tom,” said Draco, affecting exasperation when all he really felt was mounting nausea, “don’t play stupid. You’re a clever chap. Don’t expect me to believe you’ve been stringing me along all these years without knowing what you were doing. I knew what you were doing, and I was the one being strung.”

It was at times frightening to see Tom’s great mental capacity at work. His processing speed was intimidating. At one moment he was the picture of innocent bafflement, and the next…

“You’re right,” he said.

“Oh,” said Draco, feeling as though he had been punched.

“I played you. I strung you along for my own selfish purposes. You were my friend-- _are_ my friend, probably my best friend--and I hurt you. Used you. I always knew you felt things for me that I didn’t feel for you.”

“Yes.”

“You let me.”

“Sorry?”

“You _let_ me,” Tom repeated slowly and clearly. “We both knew I was using you, and you let me. Are we clear now? Can we move on?”

Draco laughed a little, somewhere on the edge between nervous and sardonic. “We’re clear. As to whether we can move on?” Draco didn’t answer his own question, but rather moved to sofa, where he picked up a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and lit up.

“You’re an incurable drama queen,” Tom observed, moving toward Draco but not sitting down.

“I believe I said something about pots and kettles,” Draco responded.

“Come now, Draco. You’re too good for such cliches.”

“Nonsense. I’m still an Englishman.” Draco tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, and Tom shook his head.

“You _told_ me you smoked inside your own flat, but I didn’t believe it until now.”

“It’s my good fortune,” said Draco, “that I’m rich enough to be a slob.”

A slight tightening of Tom’s expression told Draco that his slight had hit the mark. For a quick moment, Draco felt a bit guilty. Tom had it coming to him, but to mock his financial circumstances was low.

“Well,” said Tom lightly, “regardless, I can’t stand by and watch you destroy the place like this.” He walked to the coatrack, took down his coat, slung it over his shoulder. Then, in a deliberately dramatic gesture, he glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Are you sure you don’t want a quick fuck before I go?”

Draco looked up and said flatly, “No, Tom.”

“Suit yourself,” Tom said, and walked out the door.

And Draco had to admit to himself that, drama queen though he may be, Tom always knew how to cut him to the quick. Sighing, he stubbed out his cigarette and called Pansy.

~

“I’m sorry, darling, but I simply couldn’t get to you till this morning.”

“Tied up, were you?” Draco snipped, stumbling into his kitchen after Pansy.

“Of course not,” said Pansy, going to the kitchen counter where she had set down their takeout breakfast, “But _she_ was.”

Draco snorted, temporarily forgetting that he was angry with Pansy for waking him up at such an ungodly hour. “You’re a scourge upon the men and women of London,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, executing a little curtsy as she handed him his coffee. He took a quick gulp, grimacing. He didn’t particularly enjoy the stuff, no matter how it was sweetened, but he did find it more bracing than tea of a morning.

“I’ve got us each a chocolate croissant,” Pansy announced, thrusting a paper bag at him. “I thought, if the situation is really as dire as you claimed, we might as well both get fat.”

“Charming,” said Draco. “Just when I thought my girlish figure was all I had going for me.” He reached in and took out his croissant, immediately stuffing it into his mouth.

“Disgusting,” said Pansy, “Were you raised in a barn?”

Draco shrugged. “Manor’s got two barns,” he said through a mouthful of pastry. Pansy snorted.

“All right, all right, we’re both clever. Now, are you going to tell me what’s so terribly wrong with the world?”

So Draco sat down and told her. When he was done, Pansy just sipped her tea and shook her head.

“I suppose this would be a terrible time for a ‘told you so.’”

“It would,” Draco agreed, “but at this point I’m not even certain what it is you think you told me.”

“That you should have drowned Potter in the lake when you had the chance. I said that when we were thirteen, didn’t I?”

“Fourteen,” Draco corrected, “During the inter-school triathlon.”

“Well,” said Pansy pointedly.

“Sadly,” said Draco, “the scientists at the Malfoy Company labs have yet to invent a reliable method of time travel.”

“Have they got an _unreliable_ method?” asked Pansy curiously. Draco shrugged. Both of them sipped their drinks.

“Have you really got scientists?” Pansy wondered.

“I would assume so,” said Draco. “I’m not certain what it is we actually _do_ , but Father seems the type to have scientists.”

“Think he has poisoners?” Pansy asked.

“Almost certainly. Why?”

“To engineer your painless death, of course,” said Pansy. “Your situation is quite hopeless.”

“Glad I called you,” said Draco.

“Of course you are, dear.” Pansy drank the last of her tea and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Now, darling, you’re going to call Dobby and have him drive me into the office while you put your face on.”

“Right,” said Draco resignedly. “Don’t suppose I can fall back asleep now, anyway. Say hi to Uncle Sev for me.”

“Oh yes,” said Pansy tartly, “I’ll just pass on loving greetings to my boss from his godson. Very professional.”

Draco made the call to Mr. Dobbs, his driver, while Pansy reapplied her lipstick in the mirror over his bar cart. Before leaving, she stopped and cocked her head.

“You know,” she said, “if you can’t go back in time and drown Potter, you can always take option B and fuck him.”

“Get out of my flat, you monstrous tart,” said Draco.

“You’re blushing,” Pansy observed.

“Nonsense--I don’t know what gave you the idea--”

“Of course you know. In fact, _that_ was probably the conversation I was thinking of.”

“What are you nattering on about, wench?” Draco asked, still trying to recover his breath.

“The conversation we had when we were thirteen,” said Pansy, and walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, next chapter is in progress. Hopefully should be up soon. Or at least it shouldn't take more months. Wish me luck!


	6. The Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom behaves abominably, Harry's friends try to help, and Draco tries to...well, it's unclear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter! I know these take forever, and I'm sorry about that. Not sorry enough to fix it, though.

Harry stared for a moment at the coffee cup on his desk. Then he opened a chat window and messaged Hermione.

 

> HP: help
> 
> HGW: What have you done now, Harry?
> 
> HP: why is it you assume
> 
> HGW: Am I wrong?
> 
> HP: ...yes actually
> 
> HGW: I’m sorry. What’s happened?
> 
> HP: tom stopped by my office
> 
> HGW: Just a moment.

He had barely been furrowing his brow at the computer for two minutes when his mobile rang. It was Hermione, of course.

“I’m going to do some research. There must be some kind of legal recourse here, even if restraining orders are stupidly limited.”

“Thanks for your concern, Hermione,” said Harry, “But I’m more baffled than anything.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, pity in her voice. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

“Tom brought me coffee.”

“Elaborate.”

“I was in my office, doing paperwork, when in comes Tom. Holding a cup of coffee. Which he hands over to me. Claims he just wanted to say hello.”

“Oh no.”

“Says he’s worried I’m working too hard. That I always work too hard when there’s n--when there’s no one to--”

“Oh, Harry.”

“What the _fuck_ , Hermione?” Harry was not going to cry. He was not.

“...standard abusive behavior,” Hermione was muttering. “Really an elaborate form of gaslighting, getting witnesses to claim he meant no harm when…”

“You’re not helping,” Harry interrupted her.

“Oh! Oh, Harry, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said.”

“I really _am_ sorry he’s doing this, though,” she insisted. “You deserve better, Harry. You’re so _good_ , and you don’t deserve this.”

“Okay,” said Harry hollowly.

“I’m going to do some research.”

“Okay,” Harry said again, and they hung up. So he texted Ron.

 

> HP: tom stopped by my office today
> 
> RGW: shit
> 
> HP: yeah
> 
> HP: brought me coffee
> 
> HP: aztec mocha
> 
> RGW: dont drink it
> 
> HP: dont worry i wont
> 
> RGW: good
> 
> RGW: he say anything?
> 
> HP: fake concern
> 
> HP: very supersilius
> 
> HP: *supercilious
> 
> HP: he was an arse as usual is what i mean
> 
> RGW: ur spending too much time w/ hermione
> 
> HP: ur not wrong
> 
> RGW: im sorry about all this mate. it blows.
> 
> HP: yeah
> 
> RGW: shit, got a meeting
> 
> RGW: sorry mate
> 
> HP: s ok.
> 
> RGW: later
> 
> HP: yeah

Harry sighed, put down his phone, and opened up his paperwork again.

When, some twenty minutes later, he hadn’t completed a single line, he opened his email.

 

> To: Draco Malfoy
> 
> From: Harry Potter
> 
> Subject: intel
> 
> He came to my office today. Brought coffee.

The response was almost immediate, confirming Harry’s suspicion that Draco wasn’t getting any work done today, either. But then, Harry wasn’t quite sure if Draco _ever_ got work done. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what work Draco was meant to be doing.

 

> To: Harry Potter
> 
> From: Draco Malfoy
> 
> Subject: intel
> 
> Don’t drink it, idiot.
> 
> \---
> 
> To: Draco Malfoy
> 
> From: Harry Potter
> 
> Subject: your very helpful advice
> 
> I’m not going to. Obviously. And anyway, Ron already said.
> 
> \---
> 
> To: Harry Potter
> 
> From: Draco Malfoy
> 
> Subject: your slight on my honor
> 
> It is very rude of you to imply that I am in any way in agreement with a Weasley. Consider my protective instinct revoked.
> 
> \---
> 
> To: Draco Malfoy
> 
> From: Harry Potter
> 
> Subject: fuck off
> 
> fuck off

Harry put his head in his hands. No one was helping, not because they didn’t care (well, _Draco_ probably didn’t care), but because there was no way they _could_ help. He got up and took the coffee to the sink to dump it, smelling the caffeine and chocolate and spice and wishing he could drink it.

It was about fifteen minutes before Draco’s next email arrived.

> To: Harry Potter
> 
> From: Draco Malfoy
> 
> Subject: Apology and Invitation
> 
> Harry,
> 
> I’m sorry. I realize that this is a serious situation and that you are most likely in distress. I am so used to taking advantage of your vulnerable states (which, to be fair, occur with great frequency) that I was unnecessarily harsh. Let me make it up to you. Join me for lunch. I’ll pay, even though you can afford it, as a gesture of goodwill.
> 
> With all the sincerity I can muster,
> 
> Draco.

Harry’s jaw dropped a bit. He didn’t know what to do, except to reply that he had work to do and hadn’t the time to faff about on a boozy lunch. Draco pointed out that Harry was probably not getting anything done in his current emotional state. Harry had to admit that he was right. So he agreed to meet Draco at an outrageously expensive place nearby.

When he knocked on Kingsley’s office door to let him know he was taking a half-day, Kingsley looked at him blankly.

“The Khan case file is almost ready for review,” Harry told him hurriedly. “I’ll be in early tomorrow, I swear. It’ll be in your desk by the time you’re in the office.”

Kingsley burst out laughing. “Harry,” he said, “You’ve been working here three years and you’ve never taken a sick day. You don’t have a visit till Tuesday. We’ll be fine without you for the afternoon.”

“Still coming in early,” Harry muttered as he shuffled, red-faced, out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know better than to promise another chapter soon, but the next one is already in the works and I'm pretty excited about it. Boozy lunch is gonna be ~spicy~. Your attention feeds me. Thanks for reading, lovelies!


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